


Tweek Tweak’s Conspiracy Hour

by realityIllusionist



Category: South Park
Genre: Eric Cartman Being An Asshole, He’s mentioned but I don’t know if he’ll actually show up, I have no idea when this’ll update, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other, Polyamory, South Park is mad fucked up and Tweek realizes this, hes still a dick though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 05:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15430296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realityIllusionist/pseuds/realityIllusionist





	Tweek Tweak’s Conspiracy Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [craigtherewhoisahomosexual (Ashtarok)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashtarok/gifts).



One. Two. Three. Four. 

 

Tweek had no idea why the numbers were in the back of his mind, and why they kept going up. He decided to ignore it, though, as he had more important things on his mind. Specifically, just how fucked-up the town of South Park really was, and the fact that his parents were no exception. 

 

When he’d found out about what they were really doing, why he  _ really _ craved his family’s coffee all the time, he was shocked— he’d had a lot of crazy conspiracies about this town, but the fact his parents might be putting meth in the coffee was certainly not one of them. Violent outbursts and mental breakdowns soon followed, and Tweek was even more of a mess than usual. He started drinking, spoke less, and rarely interacted with anyone. He couldn’t trust anyone in this town. 

 

Anyone, but them. 

 

Tweek Tweak’s raging paranoia only allowed two exceptions to his rule: Craig Tucker and Kenny McCormick. They were safe— grounding, and trustworthy. The two quickly became his world, and kept him safe when he was no longer able to trust himself to do so. The three of them were fucked up beyond repair, but they made it work. 

 

Five. Six. Seven. Eight. 

 

Sometimes the numbers were months apart, and sometimes they were mere days— occasionally, they would go up each day for weeks, and then go back to only rising occasionally. 

 

Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. 

 

The higher the numbers, the more Tweek’s desire to know  _ what  _ they meant rose. He’d push it back more and more, and never told anyone; he only ever spoke about his problems when he was drunk, and regretted it afterwards. 

 

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. 

 

The incessant counting was beginning to drive him crazy. What the hell kept happening? Shaking his head, he pulled out an old, tattered journal from years earlier, with the words “SOUTH PARK CONSPIRACIES” written on the front in childish print. He’d had this journal ever since he spent four months with Cartman’s group, and learned about everything that went on behind the scenes. Thinking about it, why did they take him in? He’d filled the spot that was usually occupied by Kenny, but where had he gone? What had happened? 

 

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. 

 

Flipping through the old, time-worn pages, Tweek’s tired eyes looked at the scrawling handwriting and tried to find one theory that might make sense. Alien abductions? No, no one had gone missing in a long time. Cartman sacrificing people to Cthulhu? While definitely possible, no bodies had shown up in a long time, and he knew damn well that Cartman had gotten a lot lazier as time went on. So what could it be? Each theory seemed more unlikely than the next. 

 

Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three. 

 

The counting was beginning to get to him. It was so vivid, and the number seemed so important, but for some reason he found it impossible to associate a meaning to the numbers. 

 

Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five. Twenty-Six. Twenty-Seven. 

 

_ What the fuck could this possibly be?  _ Tweek constantly thought, and every time the number rose, he began to drink in a desperate attempt to drown it out. Thirties and forties flew by, and Tweek felt even more exhausted than usual, and no amount of coffee would help. The days dragged on, and he felt as if this was a mystery that he’d never solve. He tried to ignore it by spending as much time with Craig and Kenny as he could, trying to drown out his fears with his two best friends— boyfriends? He wasn’t sure. Everything was running as smoothly as it could, until a cold, rainy September night in their senior year. 

 

He knew something was wrong from the second he picked up the phone— Craig was crying. Craig never cried, and hearing him do so for the first time in years instantly made his heart sink, and Craig’s words only confirmed his ever-growing feeling of dread. 

 

“It’s Kenny. Apparently he was walking home from work or something, and whatever asshole was driving down the road at the time—”

 

“Is.. Is he…?” Tweek could barely force the words out, tears already streaming down his face as he shook violently. 

 

“He’s dead, Tweek.”

 

That night, Tweek drank until he almost passed out. He didn’t let anyone near him, not even Craig. How could Kenny have died? It was an accident, but Tweek couldn’t help but want to hunt down whoever had killed him. As Kenny’s funeral approached, Tweek forced himself to sober up. 

 

As he stood at Kenny’s grave, cold eyes staring at colder stone, he felt a familiar feeling. 

 

_ Fifty-eight.  _

 

Was this it? Was this what the number was signifying, or was his grief-filled mind trying to come up with ways that Kenny might not actually be dead? 

 

As soon as the funeral ended, Tweek sprinted home and flung open his Conspiracy Notebook, turning the pages so fast that some of tore out, but he didn’t care. Finally, he found a page near the back, with a single, large sentence surrounded by his “evidence” for his theory:

 

KENNY CAN’T DIE. 

 

Around the sentence were several questions.  _ How many times have I been to his funeral? Can anyone remember? Is he joking about always dying, or no? Why does he come back? Does he remember? Do you have to believe him to remember?  _

 

As he continued reading the page, he looked at his evidence for his theory: 

_ For four months, I took Kenny’s place in Cartman’s gang. They said it was because Kenny died. He seemed that way for the four months that I was his stand-in, but he came back after a while and took back his place. That should’ve been impossible. I went to his funeral. I saw his body. But he’s back.  _

 

He knew it was a long shot, but he picked up his phone and sent a quick text to Kenny:

 

_ My house. As soon as possible. You better show up.  _

 

And with that, Tweek fell into a restless sleep, his dream consisting of watching Kenny die countless deaths. 

 

He awoke a few hours later, and decided that maybe this whole “Kenny can’t die” thing was a lie. Shaking his head, he got up to get himself a drink, thinking that might help him sleep. As he began to return to his room, wine glass in hand, he noticed that someone was standing just outside his door. Could it be…?

 

“Kenny?” He asked, voice shaking. The figure turned around and nodded, confirming his identity. 

 

Tweek took a deep breath and stared at him. “I know you- agh! Probably won’t believe me. That you’ll think I’m-ngh! Crazy. But fuck man…. I’ve been to your funeral fifty-eight times.”

 

For a moment they just stared at each other, neither one saying a word. Kenny’s eyes were wide, and Tweek continued to look into them, trying to figure out what he was thinking. 

 

Suddenly, Kenny hugged him, spilling wine over the both of them, though they didn’t care. “You… actually remember?” He asked, voice shaking like he was about to cry. 

 

“Yeah man… and even if I can’t really remember, I-agh! Believe you. It’s not the craziest thing to happen in this town.” He smiled softly, returning the embrace. 

 

After a moment they pulled away, and Tweek saw that Kenny was, in fact, crying. “I hate it, Tweek. I die over and over again, and it fucking  _ hurts.  _ And no one remembers. I used to think it was a blessing, but now I know it’s a curse.” 

 

Tweek thought for a moment, and then asked him a question. “Have you ever died outside of South Park?”

 

Kenny’s brow furrowed, obviously confused by the question. “I, uh, don’t think so. Why?” 

 

“I knew it!” He exclaimed, startling Kenny. “It’s this fucking town. It’s killing us— me, figuratively, and you, literally!” 

 

“I mean maybe. But what’re we gonna do about it?” He shrugged, as if they were talking about an annoying teacher and not  _ actual matters of his life and death _ . 

 

“As soon as we can. You, me, and Craig— we’re gonna get the  **fuck** away from this-ngh! Town, even if only for a little bit. Maybe that’ll help you stop, uh… dying.” 

 

Kenny beamed at him, blue eyes shining brightly, even in the darkness. “Yeah. I’d love that! But, uh… where would we get the money?” 

 

“I’ll take it from my parents, and they won’t ask. They rarely speak to me anymore, because I guess they feel bad for drugging me for so long. They’ll sorta give me whatever I-agh! Want, now, like that’ll make up for them literally ruining my goddamn life.”

 

“Wow… that’s fucked up, Tweek.”

 

“Well, we live in fucking South Park. You’re either traumatized, incredibly fucked up, or the one doing the traumatizing. Or if you’re Eric fucking Cartman, all three.”

 

Kenny laughed, which caused Tweek to flush. He really cared about this perverted, fucked-up mess of an immortal asshole, even though he wasn’t really sure why. 

 

“I’m gonna go dump this out. I don’t think I’ll need it tonight.” Tweek commented, heading back to the kitchen to abandon his drink. When he returned, Kenny was, thankfully, right where he left him. 

 

“Jesus dude,” Tweek smiled, staring at Kenny’s now stained parka, trying to ignore the fact that it almost looked like blood. “You’ve got wine all over your parka. Don’t-ngh! Worry, I’ll wash it off for you. But that  _ does  _ mean you’ll have to stay for a little bit.”

 

     “I can stay all night, if you want.” Kenny winked, though Tweek knew his intentions were actually, for once, pure. 

 

    “Yeah, I’d like that.”

 


End file.
